Christina Rossetti

1830 - 94

Song

		When I am dead, my dearest,
				  Sing no sad songs for me;
				Plant thou no roses at my head,
				  Nor shady cypress tree:
				Be the green grass above me
				  With showers and dewdrops wet;
				And if thou wilt, remember,
				  And if thou wilt, forget.

				I shall not see the shadows,
				  I shall not feel the rain;
				I shall not hear the nightingale
				  Sing on, as if in pain:
				And dreaming through the twilight
				  That doth not rise nor set,
				Haply, I may remember,
				  And haply may forget.

Symbols

				I watched a rosebud very long
				   Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
				   Waiting to see the perfect flower:
				Then, when I thought it should be strong,
				   It opened at the matin hour
				      And fell at evensong.

				I watched a nest from day to day,
				   A green nest full of pleasant shade,
				   Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
				But when they should have hatched in May,
				   The two old birds had grown afraid
				      Or tired, and flew away.

				Then in my wrath I broke the bough
				   That I had tended so with care,
				   Hoping its scent should fill the air;
				I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
				   Their ancient promise had been fair:
				      I would have vengeance now.

				But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
				   And the eggs answered me again:
				   Because we failed dost thou complain?
				Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
				   Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
				      Should also take the rod?

After Death

				The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
				   And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
				   Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
				Where thro' the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
				He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
				   And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
				   "Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away
				Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
				He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
				   That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
				      Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
				      He did not love me living; but once dead
				   He pitied me; and very sweet it is
				To know he still is warm tho' I am cold.

A Soul

				She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
				Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
				   And felt her strength above the Roman sway, 
				And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
				Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
				   For dim beyond it looms the land of day:
				   Her feet are steadfast, all the arduous way 
				That foot-track doth not waver on the sand.
				She stands there like a beacon through the night,
				   A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is --
				She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white:
				She stands there patient nerved with inner might,
				   Indomitable in her feebleness,
				Her face and will athirst against the light.

The World

				By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair:
				   But all night as the moon so changeth she;
				   Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy
				And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.
				By day she wooes me to the outer air,
				   Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:
				   But thro' the night, a beast she grins at me,
				A very monster void of love and prayer. 
				By day she stands a lie: by night she stands
				   In all the naked horror of the truth
				With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.
				Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell
				   My soul to her, give her my life and youth,
				Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?

Dead before Death

				Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold!
				   With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:
				   Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;
				This was the promise of the days of old!
				Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,
				   Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:
				   We hoped for better things as years would rise, 
				But it is over as a tale once told.
				All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,
				   All lost the present and the future time,
				All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:
				So lost till death shut-to the opened door,
				   So lost from chime to everlasting chime,
				So cold and lost for ever evermore.

Cobwebs

				It is a land with neither night nor day,
				   Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind nor rain,
				   Nor hills nor valleys: but one even plain 
				Stretches through long unbroken miles away,
				While through the sluggish air a twilight grey
				   Broodeth: no moons or seasons wax and wane,
				   No ebb and flow are there along the main, 
				No bud-time, no leaf-failing, there for aye:
				No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand,
				   No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space:
				   No pulse of life through all the loveless land
				   And loveless sea; no trace of days before,
				      No guarded home, no toil-won resting-place,
				   No future hope, no fear for evermore.

to Writings by Other Women